Common Fulcra

When rowing a boat, is the fulcrum the oar lock or the water? Logistics discussion with D today, plans need to be made well in advance when the publicity is already out. Many things happening from the end of October to the middle of November. Change-outs in the two main galleries, two shows going out, two shows coming in, the major fund-raiser of the year, a residency, a wine event. One of the shows, Litchfield's altered furniture (funny stuff, and perfect, because the "Alice" show will be downstairs, front and center) but it is 3D, and both Sara and D called it a 'plop show', because you just bring the stuff in and plop it down. All the county art teachers are in the basement classroom most of the day, with Sharee, the administrator, doing something they call an 'in-service', meaning, I think, they compare notes. A couple of talks, one by Anthony that I took some flex-time off, so as to listen to and perhaps to heckle. I had a kazoo. But he was coherent, lucid and transparent. It was power-point presentation, and I finally saw images of some of the things I had heard about. Frankly, he's a janitor's nightmare, but I love him anyway. I have a sense that we might work together in the future. We think somewhat alike, though the janitor in me cringes at melting un-fired pots on the gallery floor. Installation Artists have to understand, the janitor is your friend, buy him a beer. Give him a Ridge Zin at Christmas and admire his mopping pattern, it's no skin off your teeth. If you keep the janitor happy, you can get away with murder. I have a plethora of food, people keep giving me things, and I had ordered a ten pound box of salted cod, which came in, so I'll being doing cod-cakes, with a basted egg, for the foreseeable future. You'll get bored with this, I can't imagine why you don't get bored with the whole construct. There's the occasional absent-minded professional person that sets his pocket on fire with a lit pipe, but they are far and few between. I think of myself as incredibly mundane. I bare hard on the oar, going into a rapid, because I want the bow pointed just so. Other than that, I don't do much. I pull the punts every year, and give them a coat of bottom paint, check the stove-pipe, this year I'm doing a connection up-grade, screwing the connections together. There's always room for improvement. Unless you're really arrogant. I keep a low profile and identify with nothing. When people I know act out, I keep my hands behind my back and say as little as possible. Sarcasm is so easy. I have to go. I might have a phone line, after a day of heavy winds, trees falling everywhere. But I am probably isolated again, by acts of nature. I was, the phone was out and I couldn't SEND anyway. Today I covered for D at the museum, went to town early and did my laundry, then opened the facilities and read Jim Harrison all day, a novel I'd missed from 2007, "Returning To Earth". I love Harrison, he's brilliant and funny. He knows his terrain, and the smallest details ring true. People actually eat in his novels, shit and die. Sara comes in for a few hours, and cleans her office, throwing away maybe 50 lbs. of accumulated papers, catalogs of exhibits, the detritus of being on a great many mailing lists. She leaves before I close up, and Anthony comes over from the college, we go over for a Harp on tap. There's a new waitress, Jordan, and she's unbelievably lovely. I'll stick to my guns that conversation is the most important thing, but she almost changes my mind. Beauty is a terrible thing, the way it wrenches us. That's what I'm talking about. Anthony made a point about performance art, I was glad to see him squirm, because I don't know either. Him or it. What is what. I don't know anything about modern culture because I live in the woods, without running water, a thermostat, or a television. I miss so much I'm a joke, I don't even have caller ID, because my connection is so tenuous. Yes, I'm serious about moving; I could move to town and stay at the museum, or I could sell my place and move to Arkansas, Missouri, or some fucking island in the South Pacific. It's all pretty much the same.